


like a southbound train

by Legendaerie



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Bar Night, Cowboy AU, F/M, Lodestar AU, mechanical bull riding, mild thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: "C’mon, man,” and Blake leans across the table to lower his voice in a stage whisper. “Girls are watching.”





	like a southbound train

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepmarshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepmarshes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lodestar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787630) by [Sleepmarshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepmarshes/pseuds/Sleepmarshes). 



> I went on a [long tweet rant](https://twitter.com/Legendaerie/status/1145545131459842048) about how much i love Lodestar and then i went hogwild and wrote fanfic of fanfic because Marsh is _just that good_
> 
> anyway I finally get to write about what I grew up with my whole life - The Rural Aesthetic
> 
> title is from "Wagon Wheel" by Darius Rucker

If Maka thinks too much about how she ended up driving Blake and Soul to the Eight Second Saloon on a Friday night, she’s going to beat her head into her steering wheel. They don’t have _time_ to be getting wasted at some city bar, even if the beer is only 2 bucks. That just means even _more_ people will be there.

“They have free peanuts, Peanut,” Blake had wheedled. “And Liz asked if you were going.”

“Liz should have known better—“ she had griped.

And then Soul had walked right in the middle of their discussion and said he’d go if she went, all innocent-like, and her fate was sealed.

Besides, Blake had said later, the only reason he wanted Maka was to be their designated driver and to bait Soul into coming.

Why does she let people keep doing this to her?! Why is it always Soul that she’s bending her personal rules for?

At least she has enough backbone to swat Blake’s hand away from her radio when it snakes out from the backseat with questing fingers. “Quit it. I ain’t letting you pick.”

“Z’at mean _Soul_ picks?” Blake asks. Maka doesn’t need to look in her rear view to see him grinning, but she does anyway.

“It means _I_ pick, because I’m drivin’ you two asses there and back and don’t even get a beer for my troubles.”

The socket where her cassette player once sat gapes like a missing tooth in the middle of her truck’s dashboard, but the radio still catches a few decent stations. She finds something with the country classics, Cash and Denver and Parton, and keeps it low enough Blake doesn’t need to shout over it to talk.

He does it anyway.

“Liz says Wes is outta town for a couple days. You gotta clue why, Soul?”

“State Fair, way up north.” His hat brim is down to avoid the back knocking against the headrest, and his silhouette is edged in soft gold as the last of the sunlight dies. “We got old friends who work at the venue and had their rider drop out. Hiring Wes ‘s cheaper than refunding tickets. Guessing Liz stayed ‘cuz of her mom and Patti.”

The atmosphere in the truck goes a little more somber.

“Well,” and Blake makes a lunge for the radio again, “guess that means we gotta cheer her up, and ain’t nobody raring t’ go after listening to _Folsom Prison Blues._ ”

“Hey,” Maka snaps, swatting him away for the principle of it and wincing as the radio turns to static. “Soul, pick a station and guard the radio. I can’t fight off Blake and drive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, in a low pleased voice that does something to her insides. To his credit, he avoids the bubblegum pop and surfs until they find a more modern radio station, and keeps pushing back Blake’s grabbing hands with a grin she only catches once.

“ _Whipped_ ,” Blake accuses, and rests his chin on the back of Soul’s seat to pretend to sulk for the rest of the drive.

The Eight Second Saloon is trying a little too hard to be ‘country-western’ to be authentic, if they’ve still got the neon jukebox and the mechanical bull that Maka remembers from a few years back. But the beer is cheap, and Liz claims she’s lonely without her boyfriend in town, and if Maka was the reason Blake didn’t get to see Soul drunk she would _never, ever_ live it down so it’ll do. A coke is a coke no matter what kind of bar it comes from.

They park at a meter two blocks away on account of all the other vehicles, and head in. Blake is a pace or two ahead of them both, whistling all joy and no tune, while Soul keeps pace with her. He seems quietly content.

She glances down at his legs once at a stoplight and tries to figure out if he’s wearing his good denim jeans. Aside from his hat, he seems _suspiciously_ cleaned up.

“What’re’y’ lookin’ at?” Soul asks. Maka’s head jerks up to see Blake already halfway through the crosswalk, and Soul watching her. His eyes catch the city lights and stand out sharply, intensely red.

“Nothin,” she says, and trots after Blake, face warm.

The inside of the bar is cool, and neon-lit besides - Maka’s face could go sky blue in here and no one would be able to tell. It’s loud already, crowded too. _Cotton Eyed Joe_ is blaring over the speakers and a handful of dancers are attempting to swing on the dance floor. A couple of them aren’t bad.

They get bounced around like marbles in a pinball machine as they cross the room to Liz’s table, stepping on a peanut shell every five feet. She’s got a leg up reserving two chairs and the other under her rested arm as she texts. Every other seat has been claimed and dragged over to some other table.

“Musta been here a while,” Maka says to Soul. He says something, maybe, but it’s drowned out. Liz hears them, or just gets a sixth sense, because she glances up and waves.

“Get started without us?” Blake asks, pulling the chair out from under Liz’s arm and leaving the two side-by-side for Maka and Soul.

“Y’all took long enough to get here, I had to fight to keep these seats. Started a tab in your name, Blake _.”_ There’s an empty glass on the table already, with a second almost drained. Maka wonders if she should be worried as Liz slides her long, tanned leg off the seats, but then Soul pulls the chair out for her and she has something new to be concerned about. Namely the look on Liz’s face.

Blake claps a hand on the table. “I’ll get us the first round. Maka, root beer?”

“Sure.”

“Aww, are you the DD?” Liz asks.

Blake snorts. “Only time Shortstack’s a double _anything,”_ he jabs, and dances out of the way of her swing.

“I can drive home and leave you two here any time!” she yells.

Of course, she can hear Soul this time. “You put enough quarters in the meter for three hours, though.”

He’s right, and it galls her. “Could still leave you high and dry,” she mutters. She won’t, but it’s nice to pretend she could.

“I was hopin’ they might show Wes on the TV,” and Liz points to one of several suspended from the ceiling in the bar, all displaying different sports, “but I guess they’re not gonna televise someone else’s state fair. Hafta wait for it to show up online.”

“Jus’ hope he doesn’t try roping again,” Soul comments, one hand on the brim of his hat and his jaw set in an uncomfortable line. After a moment longer, he takes it off and sets it on the table. No bandana covers his hair this time, and Maka gets to see it for the first time.

She wasn’t expecting there to be that much of it - it’s almost as long as Blake’s but pale and fluffy as a tuft of raw cotton, taking on a peach hue from the pink and yellow neon lights. Maka is seized with an absurd longing to bury her hands in it. How does he keep it tucked out of sight all the time?

Soul whisks his fingers through his hair once or twice and starts reading the drink menu at the table.

“Want me to tell ya if the curtains match the drapes?” Liz whispers to Maka, leaning in.

Maka feels her face heat up, and she kicks Liz under the table as Blake returns.

“Well I’ll be, that hat actually comes off?” Blake puts down the four glasses and ruffles Souls’s hair. A bottle is tucked into his elbow. “You look like a Great Pyranese.”

“S’rude to wear a hat indoors,” Soul huffs, “and I’m short a bandana from _your horse_ tryin’ t’ eat it.”

“Well, now you’ll watch out for him better. Merry Chrismus, Maka,” Blake says, and plonks a glass bottle filled with blue liquid in her line of sight.

“What is this?” she asks, tilting the bottle around to read the label. “Better not be alcoho— _cotton candy soda?”_

“Got it special, for you.”

She can’t find an alcohol percentage on it, so she twists off the metal cap. Takes a sniff. “Definitely cotton candy,” she coughs, as the sweet scent hits her nose in a mist of tiny carbonated bubbles. “Whoa.”

Maka takes a sip. It’s… actually not bad. One of those old fashioned cane sugar sodas, with a little message on the inside of the bottle cap. She can’t quite make it out in the dim light of the bar, so she slips it in her pocket.

“S’all right.”

Blake gives her a thumbs up and takes a deep drink of his own beer, shoving Soul in the shoulder when he doesn’t do the same.

“C’mon, Spitfire, lighten up a little. Wanna see you have fun.”

“I have _fun_ ,” Soul protests, taking a sip anyway. “Some of us’r just more reserved than you. Quieter, for sure.”

“What?” Blake cups a hand around his ear. “Speak up, boy, ‘s a loud bar.”

Soul gives him a flat look, then turns to look down the table at Liz.

“Now that the liqour’s here,” he starts, “how’s Patti?”

Liz sighs and drains her second beer, shoving the glass aside to make room for the fresh one Blake brought her. “She’s _safe_ , far as I know. No more strange visitors or midnight escapes. But she’s not happy. I just—“ Liz bites the inside of her cheek and gives her head a fierce shake. It takes her a moment to get her composure. “She’s safe. And I’m keeping as close as I can.”

“You’re doing your best. I don’t doubt it.” Soul expression, unguarded by the hat he so often wears, is soft. “Let us know if anything changes.”

“I will.” She raises her beer. “To Patti’s 18th birthday. The only birthday of hers I’ve ever wished would come faster.”

Their glasses - and soda bottle - clink together in quiet solidarity. Maka takes a sip of hers, as does Soul, but Liz and Blake take the opportunity to chug as much as they can.

Liz taps out first and watches Blake chug with a wry grin. “Lucky I started drinking ‘fore you,” she taunts, “I’m better at holding my breath.”

Blake sets down the half-drained glass, and takes in a deep breath. “Yeah, but I beat ya, so— hey, Soul? What’s this?” And he points to how little Soul’s had of his beer.

“I don’t much care for chuggin’ beer. Too vivid memories of not keepin’ it down,” Soul says with a self deprecating cocked brow.

“It’s 2 buck beer. Practically water. C’mon, man,” and he leans across the table to lower his voice in a stage whisper. “ _Girls are watching_.” And he points with his thumb at Liz and Maka.

Soul glances at Maka out of the corner of his eye. Quick as a whip, he’s back to glaring at Blake.

“Fine. But you can’t say I ain’t fun after this.”

And he proceeds to drain his entire glass.

Blake whoops and Liz claps him on the back at the end of it; Soul splutters and shoots daggers at Liz as he coughs. None of it sprayed on his hat, however, but the hat does get moved a little further down the table.

_Boys_.

They spend an hour talking about lighter subjects - their past and present horses, Liz’s job, Tsubaki’s latest food cravings. Soul grabs them a basket of peanuts from the bar, then a second, and Maka goes on a rant about Lazy S for a good ten minutes as the table gets progressively more drunk around her. The real fun, however, starts when an announcement cuts through their chatter.

_“Allllll right_ _, cowboys and cowgirls, the time is now 10pm and it’s time for our monthly bull riding competition! Can you outlast our champion bull, Magnum, and keep on him for ten long, hard seconds? Five dollar entry fee, and whoever can stay on him gets our hun’red dollar cash prize!”_

They turn to look as spotlights snap on across the room, illuminating a mechanical bull with a black hide and a cartoonish nose ring. The crowd around them erupts and shuffled around, a few brave souls forming a line.

“Bet you anything it’s rigged,” Maka says.

“Course it’s rigged. You can see the control panel from here,” and Liz points to a room above the crowd with a silhouette behind smoky glass. “Gotta keep it away from the patrons.”

“I bet our Spitfire c’ld handle that ride,” Blake says, wiggling his eyebrows. Their table is covered in empty glasses, mostly because of him. Maka can smell the malt on his breath from here.

Soul points at Blake. “One,” he starts, voice louder than it was at the start of the night and a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I have had five beers in the last— uh, how long?” he asks Maka, voice softening on the question. Leans in to ask, too, like they’re not already right next to each other.

Maka gets a whiff of cologne and stutters. “Ah— hour an’ a half.”

“Hour an’ a half,” Soul sits up and repeats with emphasis. “Two, mecan’cal bulls aren’t like the real ones. You can’t read ‘em like y’ can an animal.”

Blake _clucks_ at him.

“I am _not,”_ Soul protests. “Get up. If I’m doin’ it, you’re goin’ with me.”

He snatches his hat up off the table, jams it on, and bullies a squawking Blake Strickland to his feet.

“Buk buk buk— oh, Liz, wanna join?”

“In this bra?” Liz asks, cupping her ample chest. The motion of her hands alone pushes her cleavage to the neck of her low cut shirt. “Nuh uh. I’d give the whole bar a show, and m’self a black eye.”

“Fair enough,” Blake says, and lets a muttering Soul push him along. The girls watch them go.

“I still see a _tag_ on those jeans,” Liz teases.

Maka yanks her eyes, guilty, off Soul’s backside. “Hush yer mouth.”

Liz sighs. “Wes speaks so fond of his lil’ brother. He seems t’ be gettin’ along just fine at Angel’s End.”

“He’s a hard worker,” Maka admits. “Fair roper. No complaints.”

“Uh huh.”

Her thoughts travel to the day he left his radio behind, and it chills her. “Least when he messes up, he don’t make the same mistake twice. Listens good like that.”

“Uh huh.”

“Still don’t like his horse and he still don’t like my dog much, but he—“ Maka looks up to see Liz smirking, head rested in both hands. “H-hey. Don’t give me that look.”

Liz’s smile broadens, framed by flushed cheeks. “What look?”

“That one—“ she points at Liz. “I am— learning to put up with him, that’s all.”

“S’at so? Well,” and Liz hops off her seat and stretches, “we better get going if we want a good view of the action.”

They leave their table, drinks in hand, to wriggle through the crowd to the ring. One of the first ones on it is a man in a tight tank top and obnoxious sunglasses, who waves to his friends and does a couple of playful flexes on his way to the bull. The announcer, a cute redhead in flashy silver cowboy boots, introduces him in trilling tones and with lots of grand gestures _._ She gets him settled onto the bull, then hops out.

“ _Are you ready?”_ she asks. He gives her a thumbs up with his free hand. “ _Let’s ride!”_

A starting bell rings.

The clock starts, stopwatch style, on a monitor above the roped off ring, as the bull begins to rotate, listing back and forth like a boat on the ocean. Gradually, it speeds up and the motions get sharper, more violent and true to life. Well, except for the smell.

The guy makes it a little past three seconds before he’s thrown off. His sunglasses, somehow, stay on.

If it wouldn’t be _humiliating_ and a _waste of money,_ Maka might have liked to give it a shot. Lots of the riders have never had to deal with an animal larger than a retriever, and the bull tosses them onto the pads like corn popping off a griddle. The announcer crows commentary the whole time, hyping up the crowd and soothing the bruised ego of the contestants. As a result, the line moves fairly quickly, and Maka’s friends are up in no time at all.

“ _Time to give it up for_ ** _Blaaaack_** **_Staaaar_** _!”_ she calls, waving her black cowboy hat as she gestures Blake onto the bull. She has a couple quick words with him, pointing out the handle and how to ask the control booth to stop if need be, then steps out of the ring. “ _Three, two, one—“_

The bell rings. Blake’s form is better by leagues than most of the prior patrons - a safer grip on the handle, and his toes are pointed out instead of in. He waves at Liz as she records him on her cell phone, grinning for the first couple of bucks. Then as the time ticks on, the bull gets more intense. Blake’s smile never drops, but his focus snaps to the bull as he’s tossed around, grin going tight as he grits his teeth.

With a violent spin, Blake is tossed to the mats. _“A_ ** _w_ _hopping_ ** _seven point two nine seconds! Our highest score yet! Ladies and gents, let’s give this hard working cowboy a round of applause.”_

Blake raises a fist and wipes off some sweat as the crowd cheers for him, but just as fast he turns to the waiting line.

“Gitterdun, Soul!” he hoots, and vaults over the ropes to rejoin Liz and Maka. Liz lowers her phone and gives him a fist bump, Maka relinquishing a high five.

“Pretty close,” she offers.

Blake shrugs. “I’m too drunk t’ be at my best. Hey, Liz,” and he mutters something in her ear. She nods and gives him a thumbs up.

“ _Next up is_ **_Saul_ ,** _”_ the announcer calls, leading Soul up to the bull. He doesn’t seem to correct her, just nods as she gives him the same spiel she gave Blake and keeps his head down.

He throws his leg over and grips the handle as his free hand comes up to the brim of his hat, tilting it up just enough to look at the crowd. Maka catches his gaze and he holds it, tilting his hat in acknowledgment.

“ _Three,_ two—“

His casual seat on the bull melts away in an instant. The spotlights strip the neon tint away and highlights every inch of Soul’s body as it snaps into place around the bull - dark denim thighs clamped tight, heels locked in, upper body loose and one hand held out for balance.

The bell rings. Maka takes in a breath.

The ride starts out rotating slowly, tilting back and forth as it wakes up underneath him. Soul stays put, focus locked on the machine, expression unreadable under his hat. The bull jerks in a sharp buck, but Soul moves with the motion and keeps his seat - a sharp spin this time, but with the same result. The milliseconds tick by, the crowds slowly swelling with anticipation as the ride intensifies like a thunderstorm, and the announcer running a constant commentary that Maka barely hears.

“ _Magnum is pulling out all the stops for this buckeroo, but look at him go!”_

She’s seen him rope on YouTube and she’s seen him ride, but they pale in comparison to this; the intensity of the charged atmosphere, the speed of the bull as it lurches and bucks and spins beneath him. The sharp lines of Soul’s legs and the roll of his shoulders as he moves counterpoint to the mechanical bull.

It’s hard to see, but Maka thinks she catches a glint of a smile.

“ _TEN SECONDS, ladies and gentlemen!”_ the announcer shouts, as delighted as everyone else. “ _Saul has tamed our bull!”_

The bull slows its motions, listing around in circles as Soul catches his breath. The crowd is in chaos as he steps off on unsteady legs once the bull stops. He waves, once, in the general direction of the crowd, then staggers for the exit with a hand over his mouth.

“ _All right, we’ll, uh,”_ the announcer peers after him as Soul slams the back exit open. “ _We’ll get back to him. Now, let’s see if our next rider is as lucky!”_

Maka is already following him, fighting the tide of the crowd and shoving her bony elbows into them. Eventually they part and she shoves open the door to the cool, silent back parking lot.

Soul is throwing up in a clump of weeds a few steps away, one hand against the wall and the other holding his hat by his side. He stops, spits, and looks up.

“Aww,” he groans and ducks his head behind his arm, curling forward, “sorry. Jus’ got drunk an’ kinda dizzy. ‘M fine. Promise.”

His hair is silver in the moonlight. As if sensing her gaze, he puts his hat back on, rubbing his face with his hand as he tries to recover.

It occurs to her that she’s not exactly sure why she followed him out here. Or why they’re still out here now that she knows he’s okay. She looks at the bottle in her hand and walks it over to him.

“Here. Rinse your mouth out.”

“Appreciate it,” he says, taking a sip and swilling it around. He makes a face. “That is _sweet,”_ he splutters.

Maka snatches it back and makes a show of wiping off the mouth of the bottle. “You’re _welcome.”_

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it. Jus’ surprised me.” He lets out a deep breath and leans against the wall, hat tilting up as he watches her.

She hasn’t been drinking but she can feel a blush crawling it’s way up her neck. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” he says simply.

“Why?”

Soul shrugs. “Who else ‘m I gonna look at?”

Maka glances around. He has a point. Not like there’s anyone else out here. “W-well, you don’t have to look so _hard.”_

Soul is dead silent. When she looks back, he’s staring at her. His mouth opens once or twice before he croaks out a question.

“Are y’— are you tryin’ to hit on me?” he asks hoarsely, as he leans forward.

“What?” Maka plays her last words back in her mind and _oh no._ Her treacherous eyes flick down to his fly and back up again. He definitely saw her look. “ _No_. No, no, no, no—“

Soul’s shoulders slump, and his head drops. The breath leaves his body in a rush. He doesn’t have to look _relieved_ , but she wasn’t thinking about _that_. Not at all.

“You’re just— kind of intense right now,” Maka tries to explain. “Not used to Drunk Soul.” Or that level of sustained eye contact from the somewhat reclusive man.

“Okay.” He sounds like his usual self again; the window to that open, playful, drunk Soul closed for now. Maka feels guilty, somehow.

“Congrats, by the way. On winning the prize.”

Soul doesn’t look up. “Thanks.”

She winces, then when he doesn’t move, she tries again. “You okay?”

“Tol’ me not t’ look at ya,” he addresses his boots, and Maka lets out a breath. Angrily.

She was stupid for worrying.

“All right, get movin’ you drunk skunk,” and she grabs his wrist, slinging his arm across her shoulder and dragging him back inside the bar with her. “We’re getting you your prize money and a water.”

“M not that drunk,” he says, close enough she can feel her breath on her cheek. She refuses to feel anything but irritated about that. “You’re jus’ confusing.”

“Don’t lecture me.”

Souls’s voice is low, but she can still hear it above the noise of the bar as she shoves the door open.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Their previous table has been taken. They find Blake and Liz at a new one with a fresh bowl of peanuts and, thankfully, glasses of water.

Blake immediately tries to sling an arm around Soul’s shoulder. “Better not forget your prize, _buckaroo.”_

“More nicknames?” Soul laments, ducking out of his grasp and sliding off of Maka’s shoulder.

“Yeah. You take to ‘em like a collie takes to burrs.”

Liz is giving Maka another playful look. “Where you two run off to, anyway?”

“ _Spitfire_ had to go throw up,” Maka says, cracking open a peanut as she tosses Soul under the bus.

Soul takes the seat across from her at the tiny table and takes a guilty sip of water as Blake bursts into cackling laughter.

“Does Wes toss his cookies after every ride?” he manages as he gets his breath back.

“Not every ride,” Liz grins.

Soul hides his entire face inside his hat, fluffy hair sticking out the back as he mutters something miserable into it.

They don’t stay too much longer after that. A few especially drunk people wanted to ‘congratulate’ Soul on his win and see if he’d be willing to share the prize money, and Liz had a late morning shift the next day. Soul collects his check and all four head to Maka’s truck.

“Thanks for takin’ me home,” Liz yawns. “One of the diner girls dropped me off and I dunno if I’m sober enough t’ end up at the right place if I walked.”

“It’s no trouble,” Maka assures her, pulling out her wallet to unlock the truck. Something pings against the asphalt as it falls out of her pocket. It’s the bottlecap from before.

The streetlights are bright enough to read by, and she squints at the tiny printing.

_LOOK BUT DON'T FORGET TO LEAP_

Maka chews on the inside of her lip, then shoves the bottlecap back in her pocket and unlocks her truck. Even through her jeans she can feel against her thigh, all the way to Liz’s place and then the long road home, cold and hard as money.


End file.
